Adrift
by Frustration At Its Finest
Summary: A commercial fishing trip gone awry leaves Braxton 'Black Star' Sterling floundering, furious, and ready to fight a God. Will his mission to get to Poseidon for a one-on-one be victorious, or will he forever be lost at sea? Mastar. Warnings: cussing, violence, talk of death, minor character death.


AN: Okay! Sorry it's been so long, but I'm very excited to be posting part one of my reverb project for 2017! I had the absolute honor of working with the astounding, incredible, ridiculously talented L0chn3ss. Please check out her astonishing artwork on her tumblr, as well as all the other reverb projects as well! It's been a hell of a year.

So, warnings for cussing, violence, minor character death. I'll update warnings as I proceed. This is a Mastar fic. if you're not interested in that fabulour shit, this is the wrong place for you. If you are, please enjoy, and thank you for reading!

* * *

There's a strange moment, where he's almost convinced he can breathe while submerged. That absolute calm that arrives after an eternity of drowning, struggling, choking on ocean water. His eyes are wide, no longer burning from the salt and pollution, instead observing the way everything churns and bubbles around him, tossing him around with ease like any other flotsam. If ever he felt that he were anything more, that time is long gone now, though with its loss comes peace.

He stopped dying long ago. Maybe he's been dead for a while, now.

Flashes of the destruction flurry though his head, the memory of panicked, sputtering screams of his shipmates still ringing clear in his mind. He knows it's just a memory, because he knows death and the yawning absence left in it's wake; he is alone, and dubiously alive.

Graceless would be a word used to describe him up to this point. Inelegant, and loud, and hard to deal with. Like howling storms. Like the one that has dragged him to the depths to this supposed death.

Which he thinks is fitting, and can't find it within himself to be mad. At least not yet. Maybe that will come later, but for the moment he feels very much apart from what may or may not be happening. Everything seems far, far too clear to be real.

Then there's this excruciating pain that slices him, white hot, just behind his ears, down to the point where his jaw meets his throat. He screams, his howling a distorted warble that keeps getting clearer and cleared with every moment that passes, and there's finally light again. Maybe it's the sun. Maybe he should swim toward it.

The escape from this cutting, exquisite pain. As if the storm clouds opened up just in time to release him.

But he does not escape the waters, thrashed around carelessly by an unfeeling tide. Everything is blue, then grey, then inescapably green, and then, everything is nothing at all.

* * *

All is warped when he wakes. Very sure of his own demise, he doesn't think much of it. It's only fitting that death should feel different than life did. He knew the risks before he signed up for this particular voyage; he is not unintelligent or disillusioned.

He just really needed the money.

And the purpose.

An inkling of regret creeps up his spine, trying its best to twine itself into the marrow of his bones, but green has always calmed him, and there's too much green for him to ignore, too much for him to panic. He breathes very deeply and closes his eyes, a heavy resistance meeting the lashes. That stinging pain cuts behind his ears, and he tries to center himself. If he can still feel, then maybe he isn't dead. And if he isn't dead, that means he's still alive, and so he must make an effort to progress in some way from his current position in his non-death.

Opening his eyes again is a challenge unto itself, but he manages it after a few moments of mental preparation, and attempts to be minimally smug about that fact. He remembers the events leading up to this particular situation in detail, and he can be honest with himself. It was a fucking mess, the kind that can only be caused by a force of nature. He likes to think he has some modicum of control over his own life, but events like this are very sobering, humbling even. No matter what kind of human one may be, they have no say in the deeds of gods.

And so here he is, waterlogged and growing more and more irritable as the seconds pass, wrapped up in a strange kind of slippery seaweed at what looks to be the bottom of the ocean. It's a bit too dark to determine details here, but his lips taste of salt, and his hair feels entirely too free upon his head. Air isn't a thing, here, and what that means for him exactly, he's not sure. He just knows that he's tired and feels like someone gave him a thorough lashing behind his ears.

Then everything is green again. Green, and inky black, and he should be panicked, but he isn't.

"Hey."

It's distorted, but understandable. He's not sure how to respond.

"Hey, you. Get with it," the voice repeats, and he can now discern from the tone that it's likely a girl trying to communicate with him. Which is weird, cause he's spent a good bit of his life attempting to get ladies to consort with him, to no avail.

Huh.

"Hmm?" he responds, a little bubbling slipping from his lips,

"Cmon lazy bones. Back to reality."

He's never been so tired. But he tries. For her. For some reason, he thinks that appeasing this entity may be imperative.

"Yeah yeah, I'm here. Fuckin... Shit.."

"Good."

God, _he's so tired_.

But he isn't dead. So he has to be alive.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Maka, is the who the fuck I am. Who the fuck are you?"

If he were more aware he might've had the presence of mind to make a joke regarding the similarity between her name and his favourite fast food joint, but he's not, so he doesn't.

"Black Star."

She snorts, "What the hell kind of a name is Black Star?"

He blinks rapidly, trying to clear up his vision of her. So far all he's see is blurring pinkish and green. And while that may be a lovely colour combination, it isn't very illuminating as far as figuring out what she _is_ is concerned.

"The kind of name that suits me, what's it to you?" he says as his vision clears, and he realizes that the astounding green that has been dominating his line of sight has in fact been the colour of her eyes staring into his, hardly a few centimeters away from him. Instinctually, his body shoves back from her, that strange, waterlogged resistance meeting him again, his motions all blurry and slow motion. She moves toward him far faster than he can move away in his stupor, her concern clear on her face, though muddied up with a bit of amusement and curiosity.

Likely amusement at him for acting so stupid and finding a way to bumble around in _water._

And perhaps curiosity at his name.

A black star consumes all that tries to stop it. The step after the explosion, the nebula, the gravity that sucks in all good and bad that crosses its path in the vacuum of space.

He figures it suits him perfectly well, far better than the name his parents had given him. But he also figures that the graphic details of why it suits him so well are absolutely none of her fucking business, so he remains silent, staring her down and waiting as patiently as possible for her to attempt another question.

Patience may be a virtue, but he has never claimed to be virtuous.

"So what's your deal? Am I dead or something? You an angel? I was never sure of what religion to believe in so you're gonna have to help me out a little."

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, so superior, and he really, really wishes he could be more pissed off than he is. However, he is overwhelmingly curious, so any other emotion is blocked by his insistent desire to know what she is, where he is, what has happened, and how he can fix or escape it.

"I'm me," she says, "and that should be enough. Don't overthink it. You're not dead, so calm down."

"Well whoever _you_ are, your answers haven't been real helpful so far. So either start helping me out, or get out of my face so i can find someone else who will." It's all he can think to say, and the face she makes belies just how rude he sounds. He tries not to eat all his words, is surprisingly successful. Doesn't apologize for a single syllable, no matter how much he maybe, might possibly, should.

"Fine. You almost died, now you're a water person. Don't ask me how to go to the bathroom or I swear to-"

And his head spins.

"Wait wait wait back it the fuck up for a second, what now?"

She gives him a look. It says 'don't be daft'.

"You're not dead, and you're at the bottom of the ocean. You can't be not dead, and at the bottom of the ocean, _and_ human. It just doesn't work like that, guy. Sorry, I don't make the rules."

Sick. Sick joke. This girl is fucked up.

"Listen, I just had a really fucking intense experience, and all my friends are probably dead, and I probably have brain damage, so if you could maybe cool it on the black humor, that would be awesome," he tells her, but logically he is aware. He knows that she's right, and he's having a hard time reconciling.

How is he meant to deal with being told he's no longer human? Hell, he has prepared himself death all his life; it's the only thing he's ever known to be inevitable and he has never feared it for himself.

But this is shit right out of a mythology book, and he just can't make heads or…

Tails.

Tail.

She has a tail. And she's telling him what he is.

So… he must be what she is. And what she is, is a really beautiful green eyed girl who breathes underwater and has a _god damned tail._

 _ **Fuck.**_

"You're full of shit." Except no, she isn't, he knows that. He knows for a fact that she's being completely honest and he has absolutely zero idea what to do with the information he's been presented. Everything he's known up to this point has been human. He doesn't know fuck all about the ins and outs of life as an aquatic oddity.

Oddity. He assumes. Maybe there's a bunch of them though. A whole race of people, just like her and him.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm not lying. You know the sooner you process this the better off you'll be. You're not gonna change reality based on your stubbornness alone."

That, she's wrong about. It's been known to happen, and maybe if he denies it heartily enough, he'll rub his eyes real hard, blink three times and be back home, in bed, this whole fucking fishing trip a distant nightmare. Get himself a cheese toastie or six and never step food off solid land again.

Which reminds him…

"Fuck, I'm starved."

"Oof. That's rough. Hope you're not opposed to kipper snacks."

He's been suffering through the stink and slag of seafood for the past two and a half months, and the thing that kept him going, ironically enough, was a trip to Macca's. He was gonna drop a grand in a week and eat himself sick, and not consume a single fucking thing that came from the water.

And now, this.

 _Awesome._

"I'd rather eat seaweed."

"Damn. Fresh out."

In any other situation he might be inclined to laugh at her snark. She'd be funny if he weren't ravenous and newly friendless.

The fact that there's gobs of it twisting around his remaining human limbs isn't lost on him. She's such a little shit…

"I'm serious. If this is how things are now, don't you think it's kinda your obligation to show me the ropes?"

Expression stricken, she stares almost through him, shoulders looking awkwardly rigid in contrast to her gold hair undulating in the warm current. It can't be denied; she's beautiful.

But she looks scared enough that for the first time since this whole ordeal began, he feels tendrils of terror creep in, icy and cruel. He tries to break the spell.

"You know, since you're the only fish lady I know and all… just kinda figured…" he says, bubbles tickling his throat where he assumes his gills must be. A hand raises to the sensation, his fingers edging along the scaly slits just below his ear. They are raw, tugging a wince from him.

The spell breaks. Eyes refocused and clear, she looks at him rather than through, and tries for a smile. For some reason, he's more unsettled by that than when she had treated him like a foggy window.

"Fine, "she says, voice like silk, "let's get you fed."

* * *

He spends what he thinks may be the next few hours playing copycat, watching each minuscule movement as she glides elegantly through the water, trying his best to emulate the motion. Not expecting to be a pro, but reluctant to admit he sucks at anything: it's always been a thing of his. Mediocrity is not his forte. The only option he's ever found acceptable is to be the best, or so bad he can make it seem like a joke that he's playing on everyone else rather than a joke played on him by the powers that be.

Seems like an awful lot of that has been around lately, existential comedy at his expense.

His attempts at mimicry come across like he's a worm frying in the high noon sun, trying its best to wriggle itself back into the sanctuary of muck. It's impossible for him to not look like a fucking asshole right now, but the only other option apparently is to starve at the bottom of the fucking sea where he'll no doubt either be eaten by something larger and stronger, or caught up in a bottom trawl with all the goddamn banana prawns he never managed to bring back to the port in Darwin. So much for his twenty thou and week of disgusting, glorious Macca's gorging.

Should have just fucking sold his plasma and gotten a part timer as a delivery guy.

At least his arms are shredded: he does most of the swimming by utilizing his immense upper body strength. All that grunt work on the decks paid off. The irony of the fact that his jacked musculature wouldn't be necessary if he had never stepped foot on that god forsaken ship is obnoxiously obvious. He tries not to fixate too much.

"So you can munch on some kelp until we hunt you something better down."

He'd been joking about the seaweed salad thing, but he's so hungry right now he'd eat just about anything. Hunting something down to eat whilst _in_ the ocean _with_ said thing he's hunting down sounds pretty daunting, and while normally he's down for any and all challenges, he's pretty exhausted in the most bone deep way possible right now, and he's not sure attempting the task at hand on an empty stomach is the best idea.

So the next time his fingers brush the slippery stuff as he tries for a butterfly stroke, he grips it, yanking hard and bringing it to his mouth without another thought. Shoving the slimy ocean grasses into his maw, he consumes it so quickly he almost misses how absolutely fucking foul it is.

Almost being the operative term, here.

Gagging, retching, coughing hard enough to make his ribs creak uncomfortably, he _still_ doesn't miss a little chortle coming from his new… _companion._ If they weren't in salt water now, he's sure it would be involuntarily dripping from his eyes, and if he was ticked before, colour him fucking **pissed** at current.

"I thought," he gasps, his gills sticking as he tries to suck in breaths too quickly, " I could eat this?!"

"You _can,"_ she tells him, mirth clear in her tone, hardly repressing a grin. "Doesn't mean you should though! I didn't think you'd do it!"

"You told me to! Why would you tell me to if I shouldn't?!"

"I was curious… sorry dude."

 _What a little asshole._

"But," she continues, sounding only mildly contrite, "if it makes you feel any better-"her tail lashes out, whip crack quick, stunning several small silver fish in a school that had been passing by,"When i was a kid, i had my fair share of run-ins with foul flotsam. Not everything that looks pretty tastes pretty, take it from someone who learned the hard way." The interrupted school quickly disperses, reassembling a few meters away, the few stunned fish drifting toward the ocean floor. Maka collects them up swiftly and efficiently, her grace in such a skill startling. If he were any other man, he might think to be frightened.

But he is who he is, and that is a man who's impressed. Maybe even a bit awed. The frustration at being duped into eating disgusting sea shrubbery has almost completely dissipated, only his appreciation left in it's wake.

"That was rad," is all he can manage. Though he sounds like a jackass, he won't take it back: his statement was true and therefore sound.

A smile spreads across her face, true, genuine and radiant. This is his first time seeing a real smile from her, and he thinks if he had any real breath to be stolen, she just might.

A scoff, and a sheepish "Thanks," are all he gets, as if she's trying to play it off like it's nothing. But she's on to twisting off the heads, swift and painless, gutting one of the little metallic sea critters with a loose iridescent white scale that she dislodges from where her human hips might be. It slices through the underbelly like a hot knife through soft butter, and he reminds himself not to fuck with her.

She is decidedly _not_ an enemy he would ever like to have.

An ally, though. That he would consider.

"How'd you do that? The gutter out of your scale?"

She raises a delicate brow, the gesture almost a challenge. Gives him the impression of 'you don't wanna know', but god, he really does.

"Painfully," she replies vaguely, and though the thought of her being in that kind of pain bothers him, he still wants to know how he can do it for himself. If he's going to be clumsy and slow, he'd better be able to slash and gash shit open on short notice.

"Is it a fucked up story you just don't wanna tell, or do you think I'm squeamish? Cause don't let that seaweed fool you. I'm not."

His attempt to soften her up a little seems to work, if only a little. She chuckles, handing him the first cleaned fish before getting to work on her own. She gives a watery sigh, eyes trained on her work, though he's almost positive she could manage it blindfolded.

"Scales are kind of like teeth. Adolescents of my species shed their first set as they're growing, and a permanent set grows back in their place. The bigger scales up here," she gestures to the larger tiles that creep up to just below her collarbones, "are tougher, to kindof act as armor and cover some important internal organs. The smaller ones have to stay softer for mobility and stuff. If you lose any of the second set though, none will grow back so… when a sea serpent crushed me so hard a few of my scales popped out, I made the best of it."

"Wouldn't recommend it though," she continues with a chuckle and a nudge, as if she hasn't just told him something totally beyond fucked up. What had this chick been through?

Maybe they have more in common than he had thought.

"So I can't have a badass throat slasher too?" he laughs, and she rolls her eyes, a little curl in her pink lips all too telling of her amusement.

"Fraid not. Unless you wanna go pick a fight with a giant sea serpent and see what happens, but again, not something I would ever encourage."

"Unless I really pissed you off-"

"Unless you really, really pissed me off, yeah," she giggles, not unkindly, finishing her task with the last two fish and handing another to him so the four are split in equal parts between them. The grin that had been tugging his lips during their banter begins to slip, his situation coming back into focus. He's about to eat raw fish at the bottom of the ocean with a creature he didn't believe existed just one night ago. A creature he has become, that none of his friends were _lucky_ enough to become along with him.

Oh yeah, he's gonna fucking _deck_ Poseidon when he finds that douchebag. Might only get a couple clocks in before Zeus comes in and strikes him down with lightning or some shit, but damn it all, he won't take this sitting down.

She's wrong, things can be changed based on stubbornness alone. He's gonna prove it.

Using his shockingly razor edged teeth, he tears into the flesh of the fish Maka cleaned for him, expecting a gross squelch of a taste, his face already trained into neutrality so as to show no squeamish side of himself no matter how rank the food.

But he finds that somehow, it's _delicious._

Both his fish find themselves devoured in a matter of about twenty seconds. Astonished and astounded, he quietly sucks at a bit of flesh caught at the juncture between his canine and the beginning of his molars: he finds the rest of his teeth sharp edged. Though his smile likely hasn't changed, he'd be disinclined to ever give a hickey again.

Not that he's given many…

There's a strange high that seems to hit him after his abrupt feeding, and for a split second he almost panics. The possibility of her poisoning him is there, but unlikely. She sees his mild stupor and explains,

"We usually sleep after meals. Sorry bout that… keep forgetting that you don't know how any of this works, somehow… here," she hands one of her fish to him," I already fed today. We can rest here for a while until you're feeling better. I'll watch your back."

Nothing is rational about the fact that he trusts her, but he does. And maybe that's just because he's muddling through a food induced stupor, adjusting to being a new species at the bottom of the fucking ocean.

But whatever it is, he's not sure he cares, because he's drifting, and against all odds he is comfortable, and for the first time in a few months, he thinks he might maybe actually feel…

Safe.

* * *

Awakening to green gets increasingly pleasant each time it happens, he decides, as he opens his eyes to hers, his name soft on her lips as she gently shakes him awake. How much time has passed, he couldn't say if his life depended on it, but he's whole, and no longer ravenous and exhausted.

"Thank you," he tells her, hoping she doesn't ask him to elaborate on what he's thanking her for. He's not sure he'd be able to verbalize the 'why'.

"No problem," she replies, eyes trained on him. Something about her gaze is… intimate. Almost invasive. He finds himself thankful that he's never been one to hide his soul, else he might be scared of what she sees when she seemingly stares into his. As it stands, he stares back, searching her eyes for something beneath the mossy, stunning green.

She turns from him as soon as he thinks he may catch a glimpse, speeding away with that silken grace again. He's really gonna need to up his game if they're gonna be seen together, a doggy paddle just ain't gonna cut it. He tries to undulate his hips like they all used to at shitty school dances, grinding the undertow. Probably looks like a fucking fool, which is likely the reason it's so embarrassingly effective. Almost caught up to her after about ten needlessly vulgar hip rolls, he's back within earshot and speaking distance of her. He tries to make the most of it.

"So uh. How old are you?"

Raised by fucking wolves, he must've been. He _distinctly_ recalls mama Mira informing him that inquiries about womens' ages, weights, and sexual preferences are at the absolute tippy motherfucking top of the no-no list, neck and neck with asking about dead relatives and pets on the first date.

Tact isn't exactly something he holds in his repertoire of social skills. Part of his charm is coming across as happy and a little dim, and disproportionately (debatably) cocky, and nowhere in his personality has grace, or knowing when to _not_ say stupid shit, ever, _ever_ had a place. He's hoping that it makes him endearing rather than annoying, but is fully aware it can go either way.

Here's hoping.

Hardly tossing a glance back at him over her bare, porcelain shoulder, he can hear an amused little scoff as she says, "Definitely older than you!" And with a flourish of her icy, glittering tail, she shoots out another three meters in front of him. If she weren't so bright, shining and vivid, he might lose her, she's so fast.

But she is. So he doesn't.

He's never been much for finding himself all too interested in people other than himself. It's not a narcissism thing, it's a self preservation thing. Neither of his birth parents stuck around long enough to see him crawl, and a friend who sticks it out through thick and thin is a myth. Girls find him hard to deal with, and guys are too emotionally constipated to make decent friends anyway. Over time, he's found that it's wisest to rely only on oneself, and to be pleasantly surprised on any and every occasion that a person other than himself happens to come through for him.

So while he's had plenty of friends throughout his life, he hasn't really had any companions. No confidants, never a real lover.

Which makes his terribly insistent desire to keep her in his sight at all costs… very confusing. Kind of hard to deal with. He doesn't want to examine it too closely, for fear that it will blow up in his face. If he acknowledges that he's intrigued by her and would like to know more of her, the likelihood of her pulling a Houdini on him goes up by a hundred and ten per-fucking-cent. It's just how these things work for him.

Definitely older than him, huh?

It's a start.

Filed under inexplicably, extremely important information.

The ocean waters must do wonders for her complexion, or maybe it's the mythical, magical blood. Or it could be the raw fish diet, but whatever it may be, it keeps her looking hardly a day over twenty by human standards. He's only twenty three and already he's got smile lines and bad knees.

Had.

 _Had_ bad knees.

The reminder of his current lack of functioning lower appendages keeps him from delving too far into health and beauty quandaries regarding his new companion.

He's got bigger fish to fry.

* * *

They travel through dark, heavy waters for a good long while, and though he knows that he's in an unfathomably massive place, the density of the darkness makes him claustrophobic. He bites his tongue though. Of all the things he could complain about, that should probably be a bit lower in priority. Highest is demanding his legs back from that dickbag of a watergod. Just cause he's got almighty powers and shit, doesn't mean he should just use them willy nilly. Bad shit happens to good people.

Well. _Decent_ people.

The worst of it happened to the best of them, and that's what he's really got a problem with. Picking a fight with Poseidon won't bring anyone back, but maybe it'll be a perspective check for that fuckwit.

Personally, he'd rather die making a point than to live without one.

But that's all heavy shit, and he needs to start diverting, taking some time to give his psyche a rest. Thus, he's not sure what to talk about yet, really, which is beyond strange for him. Thankfully, she takes his cues, and talks a long while about whatever seems to come to mind. He can tell that she senses his inability to face his situation head on at the moment, so the distraction is a blessing, and he's incredibly grateful to her for that.

She tells him about the best places to hunt, and the safest places to sleep, and the most beautiful places to explore. Suggests that they go to Grigori Grave, an old underwater bone orchard for rays and angel fish. She doesn't explain how it is that underwater graveyards are a thing, or why it is that only those two species are laid to rest there. He won't interrupt, but makes a note to ask her at a later date.

"So I'll take you back to where I usually spend most my time. You can meet the town, ask questions or don't, whatever works. I'll keep them from asking you too many if I can."

"Yeah, thanks," his 'manners' insist, and the weak attempt seems to be enough to satisfy her. His gratitude towards her for downplaying the enormity of it all, just taking it moment by moment, is infinite. He'll tell her this, sometime when he's not violently dissociation from the situation at hand.

They're out of the deep dark, now, into a place where the light still reaches and illuminates, shimmering off the vibrant creatures of the deep. She seems to communicate with most all of them, and those silver fish he ate churn just a bit in his stomach. How does one differentiate between friends and food? Can he talk to the more complex minded ones now too?

How does digestion even work if he doesn't have an actual ass now? He knows she told him not to ask, but it's gonna fucking come up at _some_ point...

Dissociation is getting increasingly difficult.

Lucky for him, hyperventilation isn't a problem he needs to concern himself with anymore. That's one thing off the ever growing checklist of shit to worry about.

"So um. If you _don't_ wanna meet anyone, we can just go back to my place and kinda. Digest, I guess?"

An involuntary snort at her word choice, and he ignores her inquisitive brow quirk, because yeah, definitely. He doesn't think he can deal with meeting the whole town just yet.

"That would be great. I uh, think I should probably start asking you questions and shit soon. Just. Not yet…"

"Mm," she agrees, and he follows her lead, only marginally more comfortable getting around than he had been when they first began their journey hours ago.

Maybe it had been days. Or mere minutes? His perception of time feels so incredibly skewed down here. It feels like actual lifetime ago he was sautéing dinner for his crew, Kilik busting his balls about his hidden talent, but mincing garlic for him with a good natured grin all the same.

Now he's lost his crew and presumably his balls as well in one fell swoop.

Fuckin' hell.

"Maka."

"Yeah Black Star?"

Takes a deep breath to steady himself. Feeling the water rush through the slits in his neck does very little to calm him, so he resigns himself to the fact that he's just going to be uncomfortable from now on, and charges forward.

"How long ago did you find me?"

Though one would think it impossible, she seems to _trip_ , like suddenly she's brand new st this whole thing too, and his heart just about drops. _How fucking long has it been?_

He musters up all his courage to ask another, more devastating question, before she can answer his first, one he already knows the answer too but must confirm.

"I was definitely the only survivor you found," more a statement than anything, one he so wishes she could disprove, but one he knows she won't."

Stopped dead now, turned to face him with a very deep, wounded echoing in her eyes. Like she's reliving it for him so he doesn't have to. For the life of him, he can't remember anything about the event right now, too absorbed in her gaze, awaiting her words.

"Five days since the wreckage. It was only you left."

Her eyes harden, and she blinks a few times before turning from him and continuing in their path, a quiet "I'm sorry," coming from her. Continuing after her, he says to himself mostly that he is, too.

So very, truly sorry.

 _Not as sorry as God will be, though._

* * *

"So what were you doing this far out in the winter anyway?"

They're back in her home, an underwater cave illuminated with what he can only assume is magic. Little jars stuffed with glowing blue that pulses every time she passes, as if it knows her. He might be too enthralled to answer, had her question not been _that particular question._

Goddamn banana prawns. He got turned into a halfling freak with gills for _fucking banana prawns._ He thought it was gonna be a quick four months, twenty grand. He thought it was just going to be some hard manual labor for a killer payout. He could keep his head down, get his job done, go back home and be sittin' pretty. Now he can't stay on land for more than a day without going fucking fishtail again.

He can't quite bring himself to say as much though. They don't really know each other, and while he can't say that he minds her company, it doesn't mean he trusts her either.

"Fishing trip. Thought it was easy money. Serves me right, huh?"

But nah, probably doesn't. He doesn't think he's done anything to anger any gods enough to kill all his friends and disfigure him for life.

Which is part of what has him so fucking pissed. He's gonna find that bastard god and beat an explanation out of him if it's the last thing he ever does.

"You didn't deserve what happened. None of you did."

Yeah, no shit.

But for some reason, it means something. Hearing it from somewhere other than his own head. There's something about it that makes it easier to believe.

Maybe it's that honest green.

"So. What are we going to do?" She continues before he can respond, changing the subject with little grace but much kindness. He doesn't miss her pronoun choice, and though shocking, it's relieving.

"We?" he inquires, just because he wants to hear it again, hear why. It's obvious that people who stick around him don't generally tend to be rewarded for their propinquity to him. It's a big chance she's taking, and it traitorously softens his heart.

"I figure since I'm your first friend you've made down here, we should stick together. Can't very well let you go wandering around alone in search of a fight with a God you have no idea how to find. "

If he were her, he wouldn't stick around. But he supposes he isn't, and for that, he's very grateful.

"Okay. You're gonna help me then?"

"I'm gonna try."

He couldn't possibly convey to her how much that means, so he just smiles, a small thanks on his lips. She smiles back, the dull blue tinting her skin slightly, and then bids him goodnight, gliding into a darker corner of her dwelling and telling him he should rest, too. They have lots of area to cover.

She doesn't make him meet anyone the next day, either, instead opting for a six day plan for a excursion, their final destination being a glowing cave. When he makes a comment about them traveling for almost a week just to go to another place just like her house, she scoffs, informing him that no, it's very much more than that.

"You'll see," she tells him, and he believes it.

They travel without much incident, beyond an interesting run in with a swarm of rays, and he finds that as far as companions are concerned, he's incredibly lucky that Maka chose to be his. She's well educated, about many things on land as well as the deep blue, and has wit quicker than her whip crack tail, and a music laugh that is undeniably infectious. She makes picking a fight with an otherworldly entity seem like the best of summer camp.

He never forgets his objective, but he also always remembers that there are still things to enjoy when she's there to remind him, and that joy and hope is invaluable.

She's really quite something.

When they arrive at their destination, she's positively gleeful, speeding up so much he could lose here were he not careful. Before he can batch arrive about it though, they're there, and he suddenly realizes why.

It's massive, and alien, and so very alive.

"To humans, these present themselves as bio-luminescent creatures. But this is a collection of souls. New, old, lost and found. I figure… if it's god you're looking for, this might be a good place to start."

The blue glow of the cave gives her eyes an eerie aura, like visual echos. There was superstition that he was told by his surrogate mum, one morning when they were crowded around their tiny sink in their cramped bathroom, brushing their teeth. She told him between circular scrubs of her toothbrush about what her nana had told her when she was young. That if you found yourself caught between two mirrors, it might trap your soul, infinite versions and parts of yourself reflected in the glass.

This is what it feels like when Maka stares at him, the bluegreen of her gaze so intensely otherworldly, he thinks that maybe she does have his soul.

Maybe he gave it to her himself, bit by bit by bit.

It's a little frightening, but he doesn't find that he wants to take it back. He thinks that she may have a better grasp of what to use it for anyway. It's not like he was doing much with it before.

He has to wrench his gaze from hers, because he knows that she brought him here to look at the stunning, deep glow, not her, the girl he's been seeing every damn day for the past two weeks. One would think that he might get used to her, or even get sick of her, but no. She inspires more and more awe with every moment he spends with her, every little detail that he learns.

These past few days are the calmest he's ever seen the waters in all his life. The luck of it, getting to explore the waters so intimately with so little risk to his personal well-being. He may be a bitter bastard about his current partial humanity, but if ever there were a perfect time to become part aquatic creature, he'd say he's very fortunate to be learning the ways of the water when the water is so peaceful.

It's as if she pled with Poseidon just for him. Since he'd been damned to such a twisted existence, he may as well have a bit of help adapting to it. Why make things harder than necessary?

It's impossible for his gaze not to gravitate back toward her, her magnetism undeniable. Quick witted and sometimes ill tempered, but so very kind. Never before has he known someone so willing to help others. No creature is too small to receive her respect.

"What are you lookin' at?"

Yep, he's in love.

But that's against all he is. He _can't_ be.

The reflection of the rippling glow on the surface of the water flickers in her eyes, and he swears that he could be drowning again, so lost in her he could never tell which way is up.

But he's sure that this time, he doesn't want a breath.

All he wants is her.

Which is a problem, because he's on a mission. A mission which will bring him back to his previous state if he's successful.

Which in turn would put him back on land, a place where he's pretty damn sure he could never bring her.

It's a very serious dilemma. He has never been one to give up a mission. Once he decides to do something, he always sees it through.

"So? Isn't it incredible?"

Yeah, she is.

"Definitely. Incredible for sure."

"Yeah."

"I mean I've seen better, but still."

She scoffs, and he wishes he could kiss the mouth that the scoff slips from, but how could he? He's simply him, and she is extraordinarily her.

"Seen better, huh? So why don't you show me?"

And fuck. He chokes.

Because he would, if he could. But he can't.

Because the land is beyond her, and he finds himself excessively bitter about this fact for reasons he doesn't want to examine too closely. He is above this; falling in love is for fools and for weaklings. He isn't in love.

"I can't show you. It's on land."

"Didn't figure you for a coward. Who says we can't find a way around it?"

Fuck.

 _Fuck fuck._

He's _definitely_ in love.


End file.
